Dr. John Brown and His Sister Isabella: Outlines

Google

This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on library shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project

to make the world's books discoverable online.

It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject

to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books

are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover.

Marks, notations and other maiginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the

publisher to a library and finally to you.

Usage guidelines

Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the
public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing tliis resource, we liave taken steps to
prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying.
We also ask that you:

+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for
personal, non-commercial purposes.

+ Refrain fivm automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the
use of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help.

+ Maintain attributionTht GoogXt "watermark" you see on each file is essential for in forming people about this project and helping them find
additional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it.

+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just
because we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other
countries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of
any specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner
anywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liabili^ can be quite severe.

About Google Book Search

Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers
discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web

at |http: //books .google .com/I

rLOH'^i.i-^

l^artiattr College l-tlirars

LUCY OSGOOD LEGACY.

" To purchase such books as shall be most

needed for the College Library, so as

best to promote the objects

of the Collage."

Received

^.^,

o

DR. JOHN BROWN

AND

HIS SISTER ISABELLA

OUTLINES

BY

E. T. M*L.

THIRD EDITION

^

EDINBURGH: DAVID DOUGLAS

1890

\A II rights resetved.]

^IBR^.,B^

oCu-O^ 6xL^

'I cr/'c^t.^ A^

PREFACE.

These Sketches are written by a dear
friend of ours, known to all of us from
childhood as * Cecy.' She had unusual oppor-
tunities of thoroughly knowing my brother
and sister, having been with them in joy
and sorrow, in health and sickness, sharing and
heightening their happiness, and doing more
than we can know or understand to lighten
their sadness.

What she wrote has been read in manu-
script by many of the intimate friends of Dr.
John Brown and his sister Isabella: all have
recognised the faithfulness of the portraits. I
may quote from a letter written to me by Dr.
Oliver Wendell Holmes, who knew my brother

*^ Preface.

well, although he never saw him, and loved him
as every one did who really knew him : — * I

m

felt every word of it at my heart's root, to
use Chaucer's expression. The life itself is so
angelically sweet — the nature which won the
love of the English and American reading
world showed itself so beautifully in his daily
life — that no portrait-painter who pictures life
in words could ask a more captivating subject.
And the writer has wrought her labour of
love in a manner worthy of her subject. All
is simple, natural, truthful ; and the little
Memoir leaves an impression as clear and as
sweet as if the loving disciple himself had
written it. I mean these words to come under
the eye of the writer. I trust you will see
that they do.'

We know that there are very many true;
friends of my brother and sister who would
wish to read the sketches, and to possess a
copy of them, to whom, however, this is

Preface. ▼

impossible while they remain in manuscript.
Our friend has yielded to our wish that they
should be printed, and I am sure she will
have the thanks of all such.

The engraving of Symington Church and
Churchyard is from a pencil-drawing made by
Ewbank for my father.

ALEX. CRUM BROWN.

Edinburgh, Dec, 5, 1889.

DR. JOHN BROWN.

WHEN a school-girl, I was standing one after-
noon in the lobby at Arthur Lodge, talking
to Jane Brown, my newest school friend. No doubt
we had much that was important to say to one
another, and took small notice of what doors were
opened or shut, or what footsteps came near. I
remember no approaching sound, when suddenly
my arm was firmly grasped from behind, and 'What
wretch is this?' was asked in a quiet, distinctive
tone of voice.

The words were sufficiently alarming, but I had
no sense of fear, for my upturned eyes looked
into a face that told of gentleness as truly as of
penetration and fun, and I knew as if by instinct
that this was Jane's * Brother John,' a doctor whom
everybody liked. There was no *Rab and his
Friends ' as yet. I must have stood quite still, look-
ing up at him, and so making his acquaintance, for
I know it was Jane who answered his question,
telling him who I was and where I lived. * Ah ! '
he said, ' I know her father ; he is a very good
man, a great deal better than , in whom he

lo Dr. yohn Brown.

believes.' He asked if I was going in to town, and
hearing that I was, said, ' I '11 drive you in.' He
took no notice of me as we walked down to the
small side gate, and I was plunged in thought at
the idea of driving home in a doctor's carriage.
We soon reached said carriage, and my foot
was on the step, when again my arm was seized,
and this time, 'Are you a Homoeopathist ? ' was
demanded. I stoutly answered ' Yes,' for I thought
I must not sail or drive under false colours. ' In-
deed ! they go outside,' was his reply. This was
too much for me; so, shaking myself free I said,
* No, they don't, they can walk.' He smiled, looked
me rapidly all over from head to foot, and then
said in the same quiet voice, 'For that I'll take
you in ' — and in I went.

He asked me a little about school, but did not
talk much, and I remember with a kind of awe, that I
saw him lean back and shut his eyes. I did not then
know how characteristic of him at times this attitude
was, but I felt relieved that no speaking was expected.
He brought me home, came in and saw my mother,
and before he left had established a friendly footing
all round. And so began a friendship — ^for he allowed
me to call it that — the remembrance of which is a
possession for ever.

Many years after, when one day he spoke of
driving with him as if it were only a dull thing to

Dr. John Brown. 1 1

do, I told him that when he asked me I always
came most gladly, and that I looked upon it as ' a
means of grace.' He smiled, but shook his head
rather sadly, and I was afraid I had ventured too far.
We did not refer to it again, but weeks after he came
up to me in the dining-room at Rutland Street, and,
without one introductory remark, said, 'Means of
grace to-morrow at half-past two.'

And means of grace it was then and always. I
remember that afternoon distinctly, and could write
down recollections of it. But what words can con-
vey any idea of the sense of pleasure that intercourse
with him always gave ? *It brought intensifying of
life within and around one, and the feeling of being
understood, of being over-estimated, and yet this
over-estimation only led to humility and aspiration.
His kindly insight seemed to * fasten rather on
what might yet be, than what already was, and
so led one on to hope and strive. 'I'll try to
be good,' must have been the unspoken resolve of
many a heart, after being with him, though no one
more seldom gave what is called distinctively ' good
advice,' medical excepted !

It was to Colinton House he was going that after-
noon. As we drove along, sometimes there were
long silences, then gleams of the veriest nonsense and
fun, and then perhaps some true words of far-
stretching meaning. The day was one of those in

1 2 Z?r. yohn Brmvn.

late winter that break upon us suddenly without
any prelude, deluding us into believing that spring
has come, cheering, but saddening too, in their
passing brightness. As we neared the Pentlands he
spoke of how he knew them in every aspect, and
specially noticed the extreme clearness and stillness
of the atmosphere, quoting those lines which he
liked so much —

' Winter, slumbering in the open air,
Wears on his smiling face a dream of spring,'

and ending with a sigh for 'poor Coleridge, so
wonderful and so sad/ After his visit to the house
he took me to the garden* where he had quiet, droll
talk with the gardener, introducing me to him as the
Countess of something or other. The gardener
took the Countess's visit very quietly — ^he seemed
to understand the introduction. I remember the
interview ended abruptly by Dr. Brown pulHng out
the gardener's watch instead of his own. Looking
at it, he replaced it carefully, and, without a word
said, he walked away. As we were leaving the
garden he stopped for a moment opposite a bed of
violets, and quoted the lines —

* Violets dim,
But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes ; '

then, after a minute — 'What a creature he was,
beyond all words ! '

I think it was the same afternoon that, in driving

Dr. yohn Brown. 13

home, he spoke of the difficulty we had in recalling,
so vividly as to hear it once more, the voice of one
who is gone. He said, 'You can see the face,' and,
putting out his hand, * you can feel their touch, but
to hear the voice is to me most difficult of all.*
Then, after a pause, he said, 'For three months I
tried to hear her voice, and could not ; but at last
it came, — one word brought it back.' He was going
to say the word, and then he stopped and said,
*No, it might spoil it' I told him I could recall
very vividly the only time I spoke to Mrs. Brown.
He asked me to tell him about it, and I did. The
next day I met him out at dinner, and by rare good
fortune sat next him. We had only been seated a
minute or two when he turned to me and said,
' What you told me about her yesterday has been
like a silver thread running through the day.'

At one time he drove to Colinton two or three
times a week, and knew each separate tree on the
road or stone in the wall, and on suddenly opening
his eyes could tell within a yard or two what part of
the road he had reached. For, if it were true that
he often closed his eyes as if to shut out sad
thoughts, or, as in listening to music, to intensify
the impression, it was also true that no keener
observer ever lived. Nothing escaped him, and to
his sensitive nature the merest passing incident on
the street became a source of joy or sorrow, while in

14 Dr. John Brown.

the same way his keen sense of humour had endless
play. Once, when driving, he suddenly stopped in
the middle of a sentence, and looked out eagerly at
the back of the carriage. * Is it some one you know?'
I asked. * No/ he said, * it 's a dog I doiit know.'
Another day, pointing out a man who was passing, I
asked him if he could tell me his name. He merely
glanced at him, and then said, ' No, I never saw him
before, but I can tell you what he is — z, deposed
Established Church minister.' Soon after I heard
that this was an exact description of the man.

He often used to say that he knew every one in
Edinburgh except a few new-comers, and to walk
along Princes Street with him was to realise that
this was nearly a literal fact How he rejoiced in
the beauty of Edinburgh! 'She is a glorious
creature,' he said one day, as he looked toward the
Castle rock, and then along the beautiful, familiar
street shining in the intense, sudden brightness that
follows a heavy spring shower ; ' her sole duty is to
let herself be seen.' He generally drove, but when
he walked it was in leisurely fashion, as if not un-
willing to be arrested. To some he spoke for a
moment, and, though only for a moment, he seemed
to send them on their way rejoicing ; to others he
nodded, to some he merely gave a smile in passing,
but in each case it was a distinctive recognition, and
felt to be such. He did not always raise his hat,

Dr. John Brown. 1 5

and sometimes he did not even touch it ; and when
laughingly accused of this^ he would say, ' My nods
are on the principle that my hat is chronically lifted,
at least to all women, and from that I proceed to
something more friendly.'

Once, on meeting a very ceremonious lady, his hat
was undoubtedly raised, and, when she had passed,
he said, * I would defy any man in creation to keep
his hat near his head at the approach of that Being/
He was anything but careless as to small matters of
ceremony, but then with him they ceased to be
mere ceremony, and represented something real.
His invariable habit of going to the door with
each visitor sprang from the true kindliness of his
nature. Often the very spirit of exhilaration was
thrown into his parting smile, or into the witty
saying, shot after the retreating figure, compelling a
turning round for a last look — exhilaration to his
friend; but any one who knew him well felt sure
that, as he gently closed the door, the smile would
fade, and be succeeded by that look of meditative
pensiveness, so characteristic of him when not
actually speaking or listening. He often spoke of
'unexpectedness' as having a charm, and he had
it himself in a very unusual degree. Anything like
genuine spontaneity he hailed with all his heart.
' Drive this lady to Muttonhole ' — it was an address
he often gave — he said to a cabman, late one

1 6 Di\ yohn Brown.

evening. * Ay, Doctor, I '11 dae that,' the man
answered, as he vigorously closed the door and
prepared to mount without waiting for further in-
structions, knowing well what doctor he had to deal
with. * You 're a capital fellow,' Dr. Brown said;
* what's your name?' And doubtless there would
be a kindly recognition of the man ever after.

In going to see him, his friends never knew what
style of greeting was in store for them, for he had no
formal method ; each thing he said and did was an
exact reflection of the moment's mood, and so was
a true expression of his character. That it would
be a hearty greeting, if he were well^ they knew;
for, when able for it, he did enjoy the coming and
going of friends. At lunch-time he might often
be met in the lobby on one of his many expeditions
to the door, the ring of the coming guest suggest-
ing to the one in possession that he, or possibly
she, must depart; and, when encountered there,
sometimes a droll introduction of the friends to
one another would take place. Often he sat in
the dining-room at the foot of the table with his
back to the door, and resolutely kept his eyes shut
until his outstretched hand was clasped.

But perhaps the time and place his friends will
most naturally recall in thinking of him, is a winter
afternoon, the gas lighted, the fire burning clearly,
and he seated in his own chair in the drawing-room

Dr. John Brown, 17

(that room which was so true a reflection of his
character), the evening paper in his hand, but not
so deeply interested in it as not to be quite willing
to lay it down. If he were reading, and you were
unannounced, you had almost reached his chair
before the adjustment of his spectacles allowed him
to recognise who had come; and the bright look,
followed by, * It *s you, is it ? ' was something to
remember. The summary of the daily news of the
town was brought to him at this hour, and the varied
characters of those who brought it put him in pos-
session of all shades of opinion, and enabled him to
look at things from every point of view. If there
had been a racy lecture, or one with some absurdities
in it, or a good concert, a rush would be made to
Rutland Street to tell Dr. Brown, and no touch of
enthusiasm or humour in the narration was thrown
away upon him.

One other time will be remembered. In the
evening after dinner, when again seated in his
own chair, he would read aloud short passages
from the book he was specially interested in (and
there was always one that occupied his thoughts
chiefly for the time), or would listen to music,
or would lead pleasant talk. Or later still, when,
the work of the day over, and all interruptions
at an end, he went up to the smoking-room (surely
he was a very mild smoker ?), and giving himself up

B

1 8 Dr, John Brown.

entirely to the friends who happened to be with him,
was — all that those who knew him best now gladly
and sorrowfully remember, but can never explain, —
not even to themselves.

In trying to describe any one, it is usual to speak
of his manner ; but that word applied to Dr. Brown
seems almost unnatural, for manner is considered
as a thing more or less consciously acquired,
but thought of apart from the man. Now in
this sense of the word he had no manner, for his
manner was himself^ the visible and audible expres-
sion of his whole nature. One has only to picture
the ludicrousness as well as hopelessness of any
imitation of it, to know that it was simply his own,
and to realise this is to feel in some degree the
entire truthfulness of his character: 'If, therefore,
thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full
of light' Perhaps no one who enjoyed mirth so
thoroughly, or was so much the cause of it in
others, ever had a quieter bearing. He had natur-
ally a low tone of voice, and he seldom raised it.
He never shouted any one down, and did not fight
for a place in the arena of talk, but his calm, honest
tones claimed attention, and way was gladly made
for him. 'He acts as a magnet in a room,' was
sometimes said, and it was true ; gently, but surely,
he became the centre of whatever company he was
in.

Dr, yohn Brawn. 19

When one thinks of it, it was by his smile and his
smile alone (sometimes a deliberate * Capital ! ' was
added), that he showed his relish for what was told
him; and yet how unmistakable that relish was!
* I '11 tell Dr. Brown,' was the thought that came
first to his friends on hearing anything genuine,
pathetic, or queer, and the gleam as of sunlight that
shone in his eyes, and played round his sensitive
mouth as he listened, acted as an inspiration, so that
friends and even strangers he saw at their best, and
their best was better than it would have been with-
out him. They brought him of their treasure, figu-
ratively and literally too, for there was not a rare
engraving, a copy of an old edition, a valuable
autograph, anything that any one in Edinburgh
greatly prized, but sooner or later it found its way to
Rutland Street, *just that Dr. Brown might see it'
It seemed to mean more even to the owner himself
when he had looked at it and enjoyed it.

He was so completely free from real egotism that
in his writings he uses the pronouns * I ' and * our '
with perfect fearlessness. His sole aim is to bring
himself into sympathy with his readers, and he
chooses the form that will do that most directly.
The most striking instance of this is in his ' Letter
to Dr. Cairns.' In no other way could he so
naturally have told what he wishes to tell of his
father and his father's friends. In it he is not

20 Dr. yokn Brown.

addressing the public — a thing he never did — ^but
writing to a friend, and in that genial atmosphere
thoughts and words flow freely. He says towards
the beginning, ' Sometimes I have this ' (the idea of
his father's life) ' so vividly in my mind, that I think
I have only to sit down and write it off, and do it to
the quick.' He did sit down and write it off, we
know with what result.

Except when clouds darkened his spirit (which,
alas! they too often did), and he looked inwards
and saw. no light, he seemed to have neither time
nor occasion to think of himself at all. His whole
nature found meat and drink in lovingly watching
all mankind, men, women, and children, the lower
animals too, — only he seldom spoke of them as
lower, he thought of them as complete in them-
selves. ' Look at that creature,' he said on a bright,
sunny day as a cab horse passed, prancing consider-
ably and rearing his head ; ' that 's delightful, he 's
happy in the sunshine, and wishes to be looked cU ;
just like some of us here on the pavement' How
many of us on the pavement find delight in the on-
goings of a cab horse? His dog, seated opposite
him one day in the carriage, suddenly made a bolt
and disappeared at the open window. * An acquaint-
ance must have passed whom he wished to speak to/
was Dr. Brown's explanation of his unexpected exit*

In The Imitation it is said, 'If thy heart were

Dr. John Brown. 2 1

sincere and upright, then every creature would be
unto thee a looking-glass of life.' It was so with Dr.
Brown. His quick sympathy was truly personal in
each case, but it did not end there. It gladdened
him to call forth the child's merry laugh, for his heart
expanded with the thought that joy was world-wide ;
and in the same way sorrow saddened him, for it too
was everywhere. He discovered with keenest insight
all that lay below the surface, dwelling on the good,
and bringing it to the light, while from what was bad
or hopelessly foolish he simply turned aside. He had
friends in all ranks of life, ' from the peasant to the
peer,' as the phrase is, and higher. He was con-
stantly forming links with those whom he met,
and they were links that held fast, for he never for-
got any one with whom he had had real contact
of spirit, and the way in which he formed this con-
tact was perhaps the most wonderful thing about
him. A word, a look, would put him in posses-
sion of all that was best and truest in a character.
And it was character that he thought of; surroundings
were very secondary with him. Though he thoroughly
appreciated a beautiful setting, the want of it did
not repel him. 'Come and see a first-rate man,'
he said to me one day as he met me at the door.
And here in the dining-room stood a stalwart
countryman, clad in rough homespun, with a brightly-
coloured ' cravat ' about his neck, his face glowing

22 Dr. yohn Brawn.

with pleasure as his friend (for he evidently con-
sidered Dr. Brown his friend) looked up at him.
They had met that morning, when the man came
asking admission for a child to the Infirmary, and
now he had returned to report his success. The
look of keen and kindly interest with which every
word was listened to might well encourage him to
* go on,' as he was frequently told to do. *The wife '
figured now and again in the narration, and as
he rose to go, the beaming look with which Dr.
Brown said, * And you 're fond of your wife ? ' was
met by a broad smile of satisfaction, and, 'Ay,
I 'm fond o' her,' followed by a hearty shake of the
hand. ' His feelings are as delicate as his body
is big' was Dr. Brown's remark as he returned to
the room after going with him to the door.

It is Ruskin who says, 'The greatest thing a
human soul ever does is to see something, and tell
what it saw in a plain way. To see clearly is poetry,
prophecy, and religion all in one.' Dr. Brown was
constantly seeing what others did not see, and the
desire to tell it, to make others share his feelings,
forced him to write, or made it impossible for him to
do so when not in writing mood. To prescribe a
subject to him was useless, and worse. What truer
or shorter explanation can be given of the fascination
of ' Rab and his Friends ' than that in James, in
Ailie, and in Rab he ' saw something ' that others

Dr. yohn Brown. z^,

did not see, and told what he saw in * a plain way,'
—in a perfect way, too. ' Wasn't she a grand little
creature?' he said about *Marjorie,' only a few
months before his death. 'And grand that you
have made thousands know her, and love her,
after she has been in heaven for seventy years
and more/ was the answer. *Yes, I am glad^ he
said, and he looked it too. He was not thinking
of *Marjorie Fleming,' one of his literary produc-
tions, as it would be called, but of the bright, eager
child herself.

But the words he applied to Dr. Chalmers are true
as regards himself — * We cannot now go very curiously
to work to scrutinise the composition of his character;
we cannot take that large, free, genial nature to
pieces, and weigh this and measure that, and sum up
and pronounce ; we are so near as yet to him and to
his loss, he is too dear to us to be so handled. '* His
death," to use the pathetic words of Hartley Cole-
ridge, "is a recent sorrow, his image still lives in
eyes that weep for him."' Though necessarily all
his life coming into close contact with sickness and
death, he never became accustomed, as so many
seem to do, to their sorrowfulness and mystery, and
the tear and wear of spirit involved in so many of
his patients being also his close personal friends,
was, without doubt, a cause of real injury to his
own health.

24 Dr, yohn Brown.

I shall never forget the expression of his face as
he stood looking at his friend Sir George Harvey, for
the last time. He had sat for a long while holding
the nearly pulseless wrist; then he rose, and with
folded hands stood looking down earnestly on the
face already stamped with the nobility of death, his
own nearly as pale, but wearing too the traces of
care and sorrow which had now for ever vanished
from his friend's. For many minutes he stood quite
still as if rapt in thought ; then slowly stooping, he
reverently kissed the brow, and silently, without
speaking one word, he left the room.

I have spoken of the first time I saw him ; shall I
tell of the last — of that wet, dreary Sunday, so un-
like a day in spring, when, with the church bells
ringing, John^ took me up to his room, and left me
there ) He was sitting up in bed, but looked weaker
than one would have expected after only two days'
illness, and twice pointing to his chest, he said, ' I
know this is something vital ; ' and then musingly,
almost as if he were speaking of some one else, ' It 's
sad, Cecy, isn't it?' But he got much brighter
after a minute or two, noticed some change in my
dress, approved of it, then asked if I had been to
church, and, ' What was the text ? ' * smiling as he did
so, as if he half expected I had forgotten it I told
him, 4n the world ye shall have tribulation; bat be of

^ Dr. Brown's only son. ' See Note A.

Dr. John Brown. 25

good cheer, I have overcome the world.' * Wonder-
ful words/ he said, folding his hands and closing his
eyes, and repeated slowly, * Be of good cheer ; ' then,
after a pause, * And from Him^ our Saviour ! ' In a
minute or two I rose, fearing to stay too long, but
he looked surprised, and asked me what I meant
foy going so soon. So I sat down again. He asked
me what books I was reading, and I told him, and he
spoke a little of them. Then suddenly, as if it had
just flashed upon him, he said, ' Ah ! I have done
nothing to your brother's papers but look at them,^
and felt the material was splendid, and now it is
too late.' Some months before, when he was exceed-
ingly well and cheerful, he had told me to bring
him two manuscript books I had once shown
him, saying, * I have often felt I could write about
him^ as good a text as Arthur Hallam.' I told him
it would be the greatest boon were he to do it;
but he warned me not to hope too much. After
a few minutes, again I rose to go. His ' Thank you
for coming,' I answered by, * Thank you for letting
me come ;' and then, yielding to a sudden impulse,
for I seldom ventured on such ground, I added, ' And
I can never half thank you for all you have been to
me all these years.' * No, you mustn't thank me,' he
said sadly, and a word or two more, * but remember
me when you pray to God.' I answered more by

1 See Note B.

26 Z?r. John Brawn.

look and by clasp of his hand than by word ; but he
did feel that I had answered him, for ^ That 's right/
he said firmly, his face brightening, and as I reached
the door, ' Come again soon.'

The next time I was in that room, four days after,
it was to look on 'that beautiful sealed face,' and to
feel that the pure in heart had seen God. Sir
George Harvey once said, 'I like to think what
the first gitnt of heaven will be to John Brown.* He
had got it now. What more can or need we say ?

ISABELLA CRANSTON BROWN

TRY to see with the * inward eye ' a house facing
south, built of fine grey stone, the good
quality of which can be noticed in the pillars of a
porch, too large perhaps for what it leads to, but suit-
able as an entrance to a house not quite of the usual
type. A window above the porch, one on each side
of it, and to the east an additional window in a wing,
are all that is seen from the front. The ground
around slopes gently, and is divided into a lawn,
gravel walk, and shrubbery beyond. Wait for a
minute or two, and if it is summer, and afternoon,
the porch door will open, and you will see coming
quickly down its steps a small, slight, middle-aged
lady. She wears a black dress, or one of a very
quiet colour, having no undue amplitude of skirt,
and reaching only to her ankles, a dress in which
utility is evidently the first consideration, but pretty
too, and of fine soft material. A light shawl i^
round her shoulders, so small as in no way to
impede the free movement of her arms; and not
only on her head, but framing her face — a face kind,
bright, sensitive — is a beautifully fresh cap formed of

S9

30 Isabella Cranston Brown.

rows of finely plaited tulle, with a single bow of white
ribbon behind, strings of the same white ribbon being
tied or £5istened by a small brooch under her chin.

She will cross the gravel walk, and reach the lawn
with accelerated velocity; then suddenly pause,
stoop, and with a small tool which she holds in her
hand will vigorously unearth any dandelion plant
that dares to flaunt on that green-sward. Possibly
while she is at her work the gate bell is rung, and
she leaves the dandelions as abruptly as she came
to them, and, after a warm welcome to her guest,
returns with him or her to the house.

The newly-arrived may be of any age or rank, or
either sex, but the greeting is equally genuine. If it
be some old divine, or young student, or well-known
civic dignitary — • You have come to see my father,'
she says, and leads the way to the eastern room, the
library, which commands a lovely view of the sur-
rounding country. Here is seated, or presently
enters, a tall, benignant-looking old man. His eyes
are pensive, luminous, and kindling, and though his
forehead is bald, his hair perhaps first attracts atten-
tion. It is long, but not straggling, ending in a
natural roll, and white as snow, while his eyelashes
and delicately arched eyebrows are jet black. Any
one who reads this probably knows the house
and its inmates. It is Arthur Lodge, Newington;
the beautiful old man is Dr. Brown of ^ Broughton

Isabella Cranston Brown. 31

Place' — his name a household word in Edinburgh
forty years ago — and the small, slight, middle-aged
lady is his daughter Isabella.

Isabella Cranston Brown was bom at Biggar on
the 31st of October 1812. She was named after her
paternal grandmother, who died when her father was
not quite twelve years old, but of whom in old
family papers interesting traces remain. Her sig-
nature, shaky and feeble, is seen at the foot of
* a covenant,' signed only a few days before her
death by herself and her husband, John Brown of
Whitburn, in which they ' give up ourselves, soul and
body, and our children, to God, for time and eter-
nity, to be directed, managed, and saved by Him.'
Also in a rough little paper book, and in a boyish
hand, evidently copied by her son soon after her
death, are records such as the following : * The Lord
enabled me, when about six or seven years of age,
to take much delight in repeating psalms and hymns,
and to be given to secret prayer.' And, * I remember
that another girl and I, in our early youth, used
to pray and converse together in a wood near Kelso.'
She is said to have been very beautiful, and her son
was strikingly like her. Touching reference is made
to her by Dr. John Brown in his * Letter to Dr.
Cairns.' No wonder the Isabella Brown of whom
we now speak was glad to bear the name of one so
lovely and so good.

32 Isabella Cranston Brown.

Our Isabella was scarcely four years old when her
own mother died, but she was love-loyal to her all
through a long life. She dwelt on the thought of
her in a way that was quite remarkable. She could
vividly recall being told of her death. *I was at
Callands/ I have heard her say, ' and Aunt Aitken
took me on her knee and told me God had taken
my mother home.' * I know I remember this,' she
would eagerly tell us, * for I always, in thinking of it,
pictured it as happening in a room seldom used as a
sitting-room, and I asked Aunt long after and found
I was right ; so you see I remembered it,' she would
say almost with triumph. And again — * Another thing
I verified as to my remembrance of my mother.
She took medicine out of a strangely-shaped bottle,
and of a bright colour. I once spoke to John about
it, and he knew what it must have been, and thought
she was very likely to have got it' No one could
hear her speak of her mother without feeling that it
was beautiful and wonderful to see the eagerness in
her old face when referring to the young mother
whom she had so early lost. Those who can recall
this feature in her character feel that the desire,
often expressed, and distinctly stated in her will, ^I
wish to be buried in the same grave as my mother,*
was not mere sentiment, as some might call it, but
the expression in symbol of one of her deepest feel-
ings. She had a daughter's heart. Dr. John Brown

Isabella Cranston Brown. 33

tells, in speaking of his early life, how their mother's
death affected their father in many ways, and that
although he was much with his children, giving them
* all the education they got at Biggar,' he was more
silent and reserved than he had been before. He
says, *We lived, and slept, and played under the
shadow of that death, and we saw, or rather felt,
that he was another father than before.'

And yet their childhood must have had its happy
days too, if we may judge by the pleasure with which
they looked back to their home in that quiet pastoral
country. And the sunny Saturdays spent among the
hills must have been a very distinctive part of their
education. On one of them Dr. John found out the
mystery of the well, * far up among the wild hills,'
caught its *soul,' on 'one supremely scorching
summer day, when the sun was at his highest noon.'
Even then they felt the fascination which continued
with them through life, of * the sleep which is among
the lonely hills,' and listened to the stillness, profound,
but for the murmur and tinkle of the burn, or
perhaps the sudden passing of a big, satisfied
bee, whose hum breaks and yet completes the
silence.

They had occasions, too, when their best dresses
were needed, for Isabella used to describe the glories
of ' white muslin frocks, with neat little frills and blue
sashes,' which she and Janet rejoiced in, and in

c

34 Isabella Cranston Brown.

which' * Janet at least looked very pretty.' But I
think the time she most distinctly remembered wearing
hers was not at *a dancing ball' (I quote a well-
known divine), but at the family dinner at Callands,
after the baptism of her cousin and lifelong friend,
Andrew Aitken.

I have seen letters of Dr. John's to her when she
was quite young, in which playful reference is made
to her habit of repeating poetry, and she is advised
to commit to memory, * Now came still evening on.*
One suspects that she had committed it to memory,
and that perhaps her brothers had heard it oftener
than they desired. Then when she is paying a short
visit to friends, she is adjured to come home at once,
and addressed as ' Queen of this our dwelling-place.'
But in early letters the light in which she is most
frequently seen is acting as softening medium be-
tween her brothers and grandmother, their mother's
mother, who took charge of them during their child-
hood and youth. Statements of accounts (and very
innocent statements they seem) are made to her.
Dr. John seems very early to have felt * Grand-
mother's Rhadamanthine ' rule, as he calls it. And
perhaps Isabella felt it too j but loyalty to * Grand-
mother ' was very deep in her nature, and the almost
exaggerated idea which she had of upholding her
authority made it more difficult for her, as a young
girl, to show the sympathy with her brothers which

Isabella Cranston Brown. 35

she truly felt In later life the expression of this
S3anpathy had no hindrance.

During the few happy years of her father's second
marriage, to wait on her grandmother, whose strength
was beginning to fail, became her first duty. When
her brother William began practice in Melrose, she
and her grandmother went to live with him. It was
very remarkable how all her life long, when one work
was taken from her, or completed, another was given,
and this took place very markedly now.

As her grandmother's life drew rapidly to a close,
it became only too evident that her father would
again be left a mourner. His wife lay hopelessly ill
in her mother's house at Thomliebank, and Isabella
had letters from him urging her to come. Doubtless
the dying mother wished with her own lips to com-
mend her little children to their elder sister's care.
But her grandmother she could not leave.

When the end at last came, and she was needed
no more, without an hour's delay she set* off. It
was a * Sabbath ' morning (she never called it Sun-
day), and she was in time to catch the coach to
Edinburgh. I have heard her describe in her
graphic way how she reached Edinburgh when the
church bells were ringing, and how strange and far
off they sounded to her, so bent on continuing her
journey on this the first and only time in her life
when she wished to travel on that day. But there was

36 Isabella Cranston Brown.

no coach to Glasgow, or she was too late for it
There were no telegrams then, and she could do
nothing but wait till the Monday morning. When she
reached Thomliebank, all was over. To care for her
father and his three little children was now to be the
work of her life, and with all her heart she accepted
it. She did a mother's part, and she had her reward.
More and more as she grew older, Jane ^ and Alex-
ander,^ and all that concerned them and theirs,
became the centre of her interest, though the circum-
ference was wide enough ; and after her death, in the
box which held her few, very few, valuables, were
found some of the toy treasures of the * little Maggie,'
so early taken, but never forgotten. Through all the
long years of her life, it was with the tremulousness
of voice that tells of a lasting grief that she named
her.

3ome years after she had begun to take the man-
agement of her father's household a serious illness
laid her aside, and made the discharge of home
duties impossible. But shortly after coming to Arthur
Lodge her health was completely restored, and
continued unbrokenly good till within a year of her
death. Now that I think of it, she can scarcely have
been even middle-aged when Arthur Lodge became
her home, and I made the acquaintance of the

* Wife of Rev. Dr. J. Stewart Wilson of New Abbey.
^ Professor A Crum Brown, Edinburgh.

Isabella Cranston Brown. 37

family ; but our ideas of age get only very gradually
adjusted, and to a school-girl she looked old.

Indeed I cannot recall distinctly the first time that I
saw her, but I can the first time I saw her father. I
was in the dining-room alone, waiting, I suppose, for
Jane, but I can have offered no explanation of my
presence, for after a minute or two he laid his hand on
my shoulder, and said, * Whose daughter are you ? * I
remember the sudden * irradiation of his smile ' when
I told him, and then his emphatic * You will always
be welcome here.' Surely I must have felt as if
quite unexpectedly I had got a certificate from one
of the patriarchs, or rather that my father had.
* Jane, these are very nice people, so like ourselves^
was Isabella's remark on becoming acquainted with
our family, — a verdict that in after years we often
referred to, laughed over, and rejoiced in.

My earliest recollections of her are in connection
with Friday evenings, when, there being no lessons to
learn, it was allowable to ask school-friends to tea, and
I was often invited. It was genuine tea in those days,
a real meal, over which a blessing was asked, and to
which a procession was made (for it was served in the
dining-room) headed by Dr. Brown. A memorable
face and figure his was ! He was * a preacher of
righteousness,' and well and faithfully he did his
work ; but his expression, his whole bearing, without
one spoken word, proclaimed the reality of a spiritual

38 Isabella Cranston Brown.

world. * For they that say ' (or look) * such things,
declare plainly that they seek a country.' Sometimes
it was Mrs. Young, his eldest daughter, whom he
led in, whose face had a beauty radiant of the spirit
like his own, and to whom in bright, early days surely
Wordsworth's lines might have been applied : —

* And she hath smiles, . . .
That spread and sink and rise,
That come and go with endless play,
And ever as they pass away
Are hidden in her eyes.'

At Other times it was Miss Mayne (* cousin Susan '),
with whom he crossed the hall — the hall had some-
thing impressive about it, the doors of all the principal
rooms were made of oak — and the way in which he led
her from the library, and seated her at the table, struck
me even in those heedless days. He had a look all
the time as if he were taking care of her, and as if
his thoughts were concentrated on so doing. Per-
haps Miss Mayne's deafness increased this effect, for
speaking to her was well-nigh impossible. Indeed
speaking was not a strong point at meals at Arthur
Lodge. What was done in that direction on those
Friday evenings was led by Isabella, who from her
seat at the head of the table dispensed hospitality by
word and glance, nodding kindly looks of inquiry as
to viands, and giving a swift, running commentary
on things in general to her young sister and brother
and their friends.

Isabella Cranston Brown. 39

Perhaps young people nowadays might think such
occasions rather slow, but I know I was always glad
to be there. * Plain living and high thinking,' — but
indeed the living seemed to me anything but plain :
all manner of bread and scones, jelly of the clearest,
and cream that quite reluctantly left the quaint little
cream-jug — I can see it now.

When one looks back, now that the sum of her
days is told, one can see what true, lasting work she
did in all the relationships that most closely touched
her heart. It was as daughter, sister, aunt, cousin,
friend, that her life was passed, and a full, happy,
if at times careworn, life she often felt it to have
been. It has been said that she had * a genius for
friendship,' and indeed she had. She had friends
among *all sorts and conditions of men,* women,
and children. Certainly children were not passed
over by her : her rapid glance, when it lighted on
them, paused, and ended in a smile and nod. If her
smile was responded to, ever so slightly, she felt as
Mr. Erskine of Linlathen did when he * used to fix
a child's eye by a look of kindness — ^That child's
spirit and mine have communion.' But though she
might begin with the children, she did not end there ;
the young mother would 'be sympathised with, or
the old man whose days were nearly ended. Always,
and everywhere, intercourse with those about her
was turned into a real lasting bond. I know nothing

40 Isabella Cranston Brown.

as to her * calls/ ^ but I do not think there ever had
been one that she found it difficult to set aside.
* Calls ' can sometimes, not always, be averted, and
she may have addicted herself to this in early days,
or perhaps her entire absorption in home-life formed
a kind of hedge around her. At any rate, she found
it difficult to picture to herself a love strong enough
to compete with that which drew her to her father,
and made her happy in ministering to him. Per-
haps this may account for the strange anomaly in
her loving, sympathetic nature, that a friend's
becoming * engaged ' seemed to discompose her,
and it was some time before she could quite adjust
herself to the new position. She seemed scarcely to
understand or relish the immense leap which had
been taken, by which One distanced all others, and
friends, however dear, were left far in the back-
ground. But the initial stage over, then she righted
herself, and a new home was a new centre for love
and interest.

In thinking of how her life was spent, one can see
how emphatically she belonged to what must now
be called 'the old school.' Thoroughly educated
she certainly was, and her vigorous intellect took
and kept hold of what it received. She had the
power of assimilating knowledge and making it her

* Stt Life of Dr, JV. Robertson ^ and anecdote therein con-
cerning his aunt.

Isabella Cranston Brown. 41

own, while her imagination was easily aroused, and
her perceptions were quick and sensitive. One who
knew her well writes: *It was very striking to us,
who saw her only now and then, to find her always
stored with what was best and freshest, and ready
to describe and convey it in her own keen, quick
way. Perhaps our rare visits tended to our thus
receiving this very vivid impression — going away
with the sense, as it were, of having had a fresh
charge of electricity.' But of the 'higher education
of women,' as it is now understood, she had none.
For a long time she looked upon Girton almost
with dread \ but as one by one girls whom she knew
and loved went there, her interest became excited,
and she began to see ' some good in it,' though to
the end she raised a note of caution. The same
process took place in her mind as regarded women
becoming doctors. At first there was a horror
almost too deep for words ; then when one whom she
loved, and whose mother she had loved in youthful
days, joined the ranks, she saw in that case some
ameliorating circumstances, and the cases gradually
multiplied. But as regarded herself, there was no
trace of her ever having felt the need of a 'sphere.'
Indeed, she used thankfully to tell that work clear
and definite had been given her. The outline was
given, and she did the filling-in herself. She found
ways of 'ministering,' and her heart was satis-

42 Isabella Cranston Brown,

fied. She did not in the least resent Milton's
words —

* He for God only, she for God in him ; *

only in her case * him ' was first father, then brother,
or nephew.

In regard to her father, that she was able to be with
him and to nurse him during his long, weary illness, was
to her a source of deepest thankfulness. How good
it was that she never knew that her very eagerness to
serve him sometimes made her overshoot the mark,
so defeating its end ! I have heard her tell of going
into his bedroom to give him food for which she
thought he had waited too long. Forward she went
to the window and pulled up the blind, so rapidly
that the spring gave way and it rattled down again.
* Not so much birr, my dear,' her father said, and it
did not seem to strike her that in those quiet words
there was much repression of feeling. But reading
her character so truly, and knowing the deep well of
love in her heart, he bore in silence her occasional
impetuosity.

Her absences from Arthur Lodge during the
course of the day were frequent — for she had *to
go to the Youngs,* *to see Miss Mayne,' to do
various kindnesses in opposite quarters of the town,
every day of her life, — but they were never pro-
longed. She often seemed to hurry home as if in
some anxiety lest the house had taken fire ; and her

' Isabella Cranston Brown. 43

sudden appearance on the scene, breathless with
expectation, when nothing unusual had happened,
was apt to have a somewhat disquieting effect.

Surely it is not treason to the memory of a friend,
whose character one wholly reveres and loves, to dwell
for one moment on qualities, virtues perhaps carried to
excess, which had however their drawbacks. Hers was
not a soothing presence. She was too nimble in mind
and body for that, and her tendency to be in motion,
to swoop down upon a thing, whether door or window,
or figuratively on some question of Church or State,
was at times a trial both to father and brother. But
when Rutland Street became her home, how nobly
she set herself to do her work there, showing a wisdom
and adaptability for which her previous life had given
small preparation ! And if Dr. John's sensitive,
highly-strung nature had something to bear by coming
into daily, hourly contact with hers, as sensitive as,
but in a different way from his own, she too had her
burden. But bear it she did, asked and received
strength, and was richly rewarded. Those last six-
teen years of her brother's life, when she took the
complete guidance of his household, and guided it
well, brought her deep happiness, if anxiety too. She
won for herself a distinct place in the wide circle of
his friends, and it was amusing to watch how
gradually her individuality came to be recognised
by some who at first nearly ignored her.

44 Isabella Cranston Brown.

The brother and sister had many interests in
common. Her relish for all that was best in litera-
ture was almost as strong and appreciative as his own,
and her sense of the ludicrous as keen, though not so
completely under control. Any one who had the
good or bad fortune to rouse to the full her risible
faculty was reminded of Wendell Holmes's * Height of
the Ridiculous,' and half inclined to agree with him
in resolving never again to be * as funny as I can.'

But above all, she and Dr. John were like one
another in the intense interest they felt in their
fellow-creatures. They might have been — without
any trouble to themselves, and had their characters
been quite different from what they were! — the
veriest gossips that ever lived. Their memories were
perfect. Any one who has listened to the tracing
of intricate relationship that would follow the casual
mention of a name will realise this. Their powers
of observation were keen enough to be almost like an
additional sense. They had mental photographs in-
numerable of people with whom their connection
was very slight Dangerous gifts these might have
been in some hands, but with them charity so ruled
in their hearts, that .it took away all possibility
of anything but good and pleasure to themselves
and to others arising from the exercise of their
marvellous powers. Dr. John would come in at
lunch-time, and mention having seen, probably from

Isabella Cranston Braimt. 45

his carriage window, some * old wizzened face ' that
had haunted him with memories of the past. It
would be all blank at first, but light would dawn;
then a flash, he had got it Isabella would next
join in, and the old wizzened face turned into
one of the large family of rosy children, 'all bap-
tized by my father in Broughton Place,' and the
worth of the father and mother of the large family
would be dwelt on — an atmosphere of poetry, and
of pity, being cast over all. If it was difficult even
for them to say anything very good of some one
whose name was mentioned, then there was a shake
of the head, a sigh, and silence. Wordsworth an-
nounces, in rather lofty fashion —

' I am not one who oft or much delight
To season my fireside with personal talk. '

Well, they did so season their fireside, and delighted
their friends thereby, yet none of the evils which the
poet feared came of it. Their interest in *Una,'
and ' the gentle lady married to the Moor,' did not
suffer, and neither 'rancour' nor * malignant truth'
was ever spoken by them. They cared only for
things 'honest, just, pure, lovely, and of good
report;' they thought on these things, and told
them.

And they were true disciples of Wordsworth him-
self. Her copy of his poems (which by her written
desire is now mine) was given her by Dr. John more

46 Isabella Cranston Brown.

than fifty years ago. It is carefully marked, and the
marks show that she had discovered for herself the
pure gold, long before Matthew Arnold or any other
critic had come to assist in the search. Perhaps it
was partly her admiration of Wordsworth that made
the Lake District to her almost enchanted ground.
But this arose chiefly, I think, from its being the
one lovely region beyond Scotland that she had ever
visited. In these days of constant travelling to the
ends of the earth, it is difficult to believe that she
only once crossed the border of her native land, and
that the Lake country was the limit of her journeying.
She used to say that she had planned to enter
London for the first time in a post-chaise, on her
wedding trip ! but, that trip never taking place,
London she never saw. Her one grand tour then
was Westmoreland, but how much wealth it brought
her !

Her two brothers, John and William, and a com-
panion of theirs, were with her. They walked, and
she rode on a pony, lent her by a friend, the daughter
of Dr. Thomson of Penrith, who died early, but
whom she always remembered with true affection.
The weather was perfect

* The gleam, the shadow, and the peace profound,'

and all the loveliness sank into her heart, and
dwelt there for evermore. When I went to the

Isabella Cranston Brown. 47

Lake District, though it must have been forty years
after her visit, she wrote to me describing with
perfect correctness every turn of the road, the posi-
tion of the wooded crag, the little wayside inn, as if
she had been there the week before. In later years
the Lake country gained for her a fresh interest
as the chosen home of Mr. Ruskin, and also of
his friend Miss Susan Beever, with whom for years
she kept up a close, lively correspondence. Miss
Beever was one of the many unseen friends to whom
she wrote, with all the freedom and reality of genuine
friendship.

During her visits to New Abbey, her greatest
pleasure, outside the Manse, was to look at the
view across the Solway. Indeed she scarcely cared
to walk on any road from which she could not get
* a sight of the hills.' We did not need to ask what
hills. During her last visit there, spring though it
was, one day broke wild and stormy, heavy snow
showers falling at intervals all morning. Towards
evening the wind lulled, and though the sky was still
dark and cloudy overhead, on the Solway there was
a silvery light. The whole range was clearly seen,
white from base to summit, and behind it a sky of
quiet, tender blue, telling of a calm region beyond.
Looking up from her book she noticed the change
of light, and immediately rose from her seat by the
fire. She looked out of the window for a moment,

48 Isabella Cranston Brown.

and then quickly left the room. I knew where she
had gone, and so followed her, to the attic (Charlie's^
room), from which the best view of the mountains
can be had. We stood quite still for a minute or
two, then she listened eagerly when I repeated the
lines—

' Far out of sight, while sorrow still enfolds us,
Lies the fair country where our hearts abide,
And of its bliss is nought more wondrous told us,
Than these few words, " I shall be satisfied. '

* Shall they be satisfied, the soul's vague longing ? —
The aching void that nothing earthly fills ?
Oh, what desires upon my heart are thronging.
As I look upward to the heavenly hflls ! *

Her face told what the sight was to her; memory
and anticipation both were there. Then with a look
round Charlie's little room, and a sigh that he was
so far away from it, she returned to the drawing-
room to bury herself once more in her book.

Perhaps it was because of her increasing deafness
and her decreasing strength, which made her con-
stant running about on errands of kindness an impos-
sibility, that reading became more and more her
occupation and delight. The avidity with which she
read genuine biography was only another phase of
her hunger to share in the lives of others, not only in
those of the men and women who were passing
through this glad and sorrowful world along with her,

Charles Stewart Wilson, Indian Civil Service.

Isabella Cranston Brown, 49

but those who had done with all, and had reached
the shore. But whatever she read needed to have
the ring of reality about it. Oddness, remoteness
from 'people of our own kind,' as she sometimes
called it, she could stand, but flat, dreary convention-
ality wearied her at once. * No, that won't do,' was
her verdict after a quarter of an hour of the Life
of Miss Agnes Strickland'. 'Faritoo genteel society
for me.' A certain degree of excellence had to
be reached before she continued to read any book
herself, and a still higher before she lent or gave
it to a friend.

Her instinct for giving or lending books that
were suited to each particular friend showed her
keen discernment of character. Indeed, often her
most direct way of showing that she understood the
circumstances and tastes of any one with whom she
was brought into contact, was by giving, in the form
of a book, mental food that refreshed and strength*
ened — * the finest of the wheat.'

The number of letters she wrote was quite wonder-
ful. Some of her correspondents she had never seen,
others she had perhaps only met once or twice, but
under circumstances that drew forth her sympathy,
and the link held fast for life. Then, besides her
purely personal correspondence, she kept all the
members of the wide family circle en rapjforl with one
another. One belonging to that circle writes: 'What

50 Isabella Cranston Brown.

I, who lived at a distance from her, shall most miss,
now that she is gone, are the letters of peculiar under-
standing and deep sympathy which used to come in
times of trouble, or it might be of rarer joy, the few
strong words which were always harmonious, high,
and strengthening to faith, as well as those letters
which spoke of her own sorrows, and naturally and
confidently claimed the sympathy and participation
in them which her own deep heart was so ready to
give to others/ Endless forwarding of family letters
took place, but always with a purpose, and that pur-
pose a high one — to deepen love and goodwill. How
one recalls the quick opening of her desk, and
hears the swift movement of her pen over the
paper, which begins almost before she has taken
time to sit down ! Sometimes she merely stood
while she dashed off a kindly note of inquiry, or
addressed a newspaper or magazine, containing some
marked paragraph that would bring interest and cheer
to an absent friend. If she enclosed in a letter — and
she sometimes did — z. printed hymn or ' leaflet,' one
might feel sure it was not only good in a religious
sense, but in a literary one too. With the practice of
merely enclosing a scrap of print, with nothing in it
specially appropriate to the receiver, or specially good
in the thing itself, she had no sympathy. I remem-
ber going in one day when she had just got a letter
with a leaflet enclosed. She had read it, and looked

Isabella Cranston Brown. 5 1

troubled. * What can I do with it ? ' she said. ' It is
well meant ; ' but with a most expressive look and
shrug, * I don't like it* * Reverently burn it,' I said,
and suited the action to the word. She looked first
horrified, then greatly relieved.

Especially for her younger friends she took the
greatest pains in the selection of the books she gave.
Had she not believed it a very direct manner of
influencing for good, she would not have allowed
herself to spend so much money in this one way
as she did. The proportion between her book-
seller's and dressmaker^s accounts must have been
exactly the opposite of what is usual. 'A grand
thing has happened,' was her greeting one morning,
as she held up a note, which told that twelve
copies of The Story of Ida were on their way to
her. Her face beamed with pleasure, and she said
in her most earnest tones, *Now, the distribution
of these will need the most careful and prayerful
consideration ; they must go to two classes of young
girls — those who are sure to like it, and those
whom I would like to like it.' The publication of
that book was an event to her, securing for her as
it did the friendship of *Francesca.' Though they
never saw one another in the flesh, their spirits met,
and recognition will be easy hereafter.

But books were not the only gifts she gave. She
had quite an elaborate system, by which the skill of

52 Isabella Cranston Brown,

one friend could be made to minister to the needs of
another, she being the medium of bringing them
together. The reading of the announcement of some
birth in the Scotsman would lead to the exclamation,
'There's an occasion for one of Cousin Janet's very
best and most beautifully knitted pair of boots, or
jacket,' and away she would go, and the order would
be given. The number of small stockings she herself
knitted and gave away must have been enormous.
Nieces and nephews came first in the administration,
and, as years went on, their children were supplied.
Then came a large outer circle, composed of all
manner of people, including tramway-car conductors,
the children of the gardener, and so on, and so on,
to whom cuffs and mittens and stockings were given.
In later years her knitting always lay near her chair
or couch, and was taken up as a rest after a long
time of reading — or rather, I think, she closed the
book at some passage which she had greatly enjoyed,
that her mind might dwell upon it The familiar
work occupied her fingers only, and her thoughts
could roam at will.

And now almost without knowing it, we have come
to think of her as an old lady — yes, quite old. Dr.
John died in May 1882, and she and his son remained
in Rutland Street till the following May. There was
rest to her in the thought that her dearly loved brother
had entered into peace, and that she had still some

Isabella Cranston Brown. 53

one to care for. She liked better to call 7 Morning-
side Place * my nephew's house,' than to speak of it
as her own. When he invited friends, she was
most anxious that all should go smoothly. Seated
at the head of the table, wearing her invariable black
silk dress, and most spotless cap and shawl, with a
slight flush of pink in her cheeks, and light in her
eyes, she looked as pretty a picture of an old lady
as one could see.

There was much about the little house and its sur-
roundings that she greatly liked. The garden was a
constant source of pleasure to her. She gave nose-
gays to all her friends, she again waged warfare
against the dandelions, and carried it on as victori-
ously as she had done thirty years before at Arthur
Lodge. Then of the * view of the Pentlands ' she
never tired. She delighted to point out to her
numerous friends that she had a different view
from dining-room and drawing-room, and her little
couch placed across the dining-room windows was
an ideal seat for her. From it, when she looked
up from book or work, she could not only see
the hills, but friends at the gate, or nearer still
passing the windows, for the gate-bell she never
heard. When this welcome sight greeted her, down
went the book or knitting, and she was at the door
in a twinkling. She never lost the swiftness of
movement so characteristic of her. Her mind had

54 Isabella Cranston Brown.

all its old spring, and her body was so light that it
seemed easily to obey the commands of her spirit.

Many of her friends are now glad to have copies
of the portrait which my sister was able to make,^ as
she half sat, half lay on the said little couch. We
have pleasant recollections of those morning sittings,
for I had my share in the work too. She needed to
be read or talked to, and on congenial subjects, for,
had she wearied, no true likeness of her could have
been secured .2 But the sittings were short, as our
house was so near, and running out and in was so
much our habit.

This leads me to mention that being * only three

doors from the M*L s* she considered one of

the amenities of her new home. It was truly a
very great pleasure to us. We ministered to one
another, as she often said, *in things spiritual and
carnal' Almost every morning before ten o'clock
she appeared at our gate, and fortunately her key
opened it, so in she came, without let or hindrance,
to tell of the letters she had got, and very often to
read them. This was only the first intercourse
of the day, for many were our errands to and fro.
Once in going with her from our house to hers, I told

1 This was in 1885.

^ A reference to Froude's Life of Carlyle called forth an ex-
pression so little to be desired that the artist issued the peremp-
tory order (unheard by her sitter), ' Shunt from that at <mce,*

Isabella Cranston Brown, 55

her that a neighbour, seeing our many traffickings,
had asked ' if we had known Miss Brown before she
came to Morningside, or only since.' She gave me
one of her most expressive looks, as if words failed her.
* She must indeed believe in mushroom friendships,'
she at last said. *No' — then she clasped my arm
still more firmly — ' our friendship is the result of long
years of joy and sorrow shared.' I said I dimly
knew how much I owed her. She spoke of a * debt '
too ; and then in most emphatic tones, * But it is an
account we neither of us ever wish to close.'

Living so near, I was able to see far more of her
than would have been possible had we lived farther
apart, and could arrange to do things for her, or
go with her, as seemed best. One appointment
I remember very distinctly. Mr. Gladstone was in
town, and to my suggestion that there would be a
crowd, and perhaps she had better stay at home,
she had but one decided answer — *I mean to see
him.' So I came at the hour appointed. In reply to
my * Are you ready ? ' she answered almost severely,
as if she detected a tinge of levity in my tone (but
she was wrong), * Yes, I 'm ready, and my very finest,
whitest handkerchief is ready too, to be waved in
his honour.' And waved it was.

But any sketch of her life at Morningside Place
would be incomplete without a reference to her
Sundays there. * I never weary of my Sabbath read-

56 Isabella Cranston Brown.

ing,' she used to say. 'I have, to begin with,
Herbert, Vinet, Erskine, and your brother-in-law' (Dr.
M'Laren of Manchester), * and what more can mortal
want ? ' Some mortals would wish much more— or
different. It was a pleasure to her to be one of the
original members of the Braid United Presbyterian
Church, and in every way she showed her sympathy
with its work. She was faithful to the church of her
fathers always, though she strongly disapproved of the
Synod's petitioning for Disestablishment, or indeed
for anything else. On one occasion she vigorously
shook hands with a true, out-and-out voluntary when
he said, ' If the State as a State has nothing to do
with the Church, the Church as a Church has nothing
to do with the State.' ' Let them act as citizens,' she
said, 'as strenuously as they like, and let the true,
spiritual idea of a Church, such as Vinet had, become
a reality, and Disestablishment will come in God's
own good time.'

I remember, one lovely spring morning, going with
her to church. She enjoyed the view of the Braid
Hills as we walked towards them, and not less did
she enjoy the endless greetings that were exchanged
by the way. Almost every one seemed to know her,
and even after she was seated in her pew, two little
girls in front, who were eagerly watching, had to be
presented with * a wee packet of sweeties each,' which
they quite understood were not to be consumed on

Isabella Cranston Brawn. 57

the premises. This presentation did not take place
every Sunday, for she discovered that an old man,
who sat near her and them, wished to give sweeties
too, so alternate Sundays were arranged, and kept
to. She could hear but little of the sermon, though,
that she might hear as much as possible, she finally
sat in the elders' seat, a welcome guest, having
ascertained that if she sat ' well into the comer,' she
was not much seen. But whether she heard much
or not, she liked to worship with others. A visit
from some of the Youngs ^ and from Alexander com-
pleted the pleasures of the day, — most of all she
looked forward to Alexander's visit, and he scarcely
ever failed her.

After she came to Momingside Place, she still was
able for, and looked forward eagerly to, her annual
visit to New Abbey, and to almost the very last she
went to Crofthead, a place that had for her early and
cherished associations, and to Busby too, but it was
very apparent that her strength was lessening. Al-
though she began each mommg with the old
enthusiasm, her daily round became more and more
contracted : the spirit was willing, but the flesh was
weak. She never gave up going to * Aunt Smith's.'^
Her ties were now so much with those younger than

"^ Children of her elder sister.

^ Sister of her father, and widow of the Rev. Dr. Smith,
who succeeded Dr. Brown as minister in Biggar.

58 Isabella Cranston Brawn.

herself, that to have her father's sister still with her,
who had known and loved her when she was a girl,
was to her a true joy. But more and more she was
content that friends and relatives should come to see
her^ and they did come. ' I seldom go to Belgrave
Crescent now/ she wotild say, * for Jane ' (Mrs. Crum
Brown) ' is so good in coming to see me,' and her
expeditions by car, which used to be so frequent,
were now the exception, not the rule. Though
there was rest to her in the thought that *John/
* Janet,' and 'William' had all gone

* Into the world of light,*

(and very often she quoted those lines in speaking of
them), yet

' I alone sit lingering here '

was deeply felt by her too. The books she read did
not mean so much to her, when they were not to be
passed on to them. Reading with their eyes, or ears,
had for long, almost without her knowing it, been the
habit of her mind, and though she still read, and lent
books too, there was a flatness over it alL

I remember on going in one morning, three or
four weeks before any signs of illness were visible,
that I was conscious that there was a want of the
usual spring to meet me. She had her desk on the
table, and newspaper wrappers were on it, addressed
to Ella Young, Nimmo Brown, and Charlie Wilson.

Isabella Cranston Brown. 59

I offered to post them, but she said, ^ Oh no, I have
to get the Weekly Scotsman to put in them yet, and
I am going for them myself. I can do so little
now, I have to magnify the few offices that remain.'
I had an undefined feeling of disquietude, but it
passed, as she became brighter, and interested in
what I told her.

But soon after, the shadow fell, the shadow that
was never lightened here. And yet that last year
may not have been so sad to her as to her friends.
Not three months before the end, when I was sitting
with her in the sunshine, she suddenly looked up
and said in an awestruck voice, *I never go to
church now ; ' and then, almost with a bright look,
* Well, I 'm not quite sure, I think I was there this
morning;' then, after a pause, *But I don't know
what is dream and what is reality.' She knows
now.

One of the last times I saw her I like specially to
recall. It was the true farewell. Though quite
unable to speak, paralysis having gradually done its
dire work, she evidently recognised those about her.
Her eyes, clear and blue, followed Agnes Young
lovingly as she moved through the room, brought
her flowers to look at, and gave her some food,
which she seemed to relish when given by her
much-loved niece. Then she turned and looked
at me, as if she wished to include us both in her

6o Isabella Cranston Brown.

earnest gaze. We stood close together, and, after
a minute or two, I repeated the last verse of the
33d Psalm. As long as I live I shall be glad to
recall her look of deep response, as very slowly I
said the last two lines —

' And in God*s house for evermore
My dwelling-place shall be.'

Then remembering how she loved to be loved, and
how many there were who longed, but would never
be able, to bid her a loving farewell, I said earnestly,
'And none of us will ever forget you.' Again the
look of truest feeling, and a gentle dropping of the
eyelids, the only sign of response she could give, a
kiss — and interchange of thought and feeling with
her, which had long been one of the pleasures of
my life, was ended.

Not long after,^ her spirit reached the land which
had sometimes seemed to her *very far off.' It is
not difficult to think of her in a spiritual world
All that she cared for here could very easily be
transferred —

' The streams on earth I 've tasted
More deep 1 11 drink above.*

We can believe that the wishes expressed in lines
(Whittier's) which she often tremulously quoted, were
fulfilled to her —

^ November 6th, x888.

Isadeila Cranston Brown.

' Suffice it if, mjr good ind ill unredconed.
And both foi^ven through Thy a.bouiiding pace,
1 find myself by bands familiar beckoned
Unto my Qtting place :

Some bumble dooi amid Thy muiy ir
Some sbekering shade, wbeie sin and striving cease,
And flows for ever, tbiough heaven's green expansions.
The river of Thy peace.

Theie fiom the music round about me stealing
I fain woald learn the new and holy song,
And find ai last beneath Thy tree of healing
The life for which I long. '

Her body lies, as she wished, in the quiet little
churchyard at Symington, in that grave the closing

of which is so vividly described by Dr. John. The
funeral was watched with interest by many. The

62 Isabella Cranston Brown.

church-bell was tolled in token of respect, and one
can picture how there would spread over the district
a wave of recollection of the family whose connection
with the place was fast becoming a tradition of the
past. And nothing would have pleased her more than
that, as a consequence of her death, her father's
name should again be heard in Biggar by the children
and children's children, of those whom in the early
years of his lifelong ministry he had 'so faithfully
taught.

FINIS.

Note A. (p. 24.)

* What was the text ? '

Dr. Brown remembered the sermons he heard, and some-
times in letters referred to them in characteristic fashion.

* We had a manly sermon on Sabbath from , evangelical

rump-steak.' 'I had a delightful Sunday — a strong, old-
fashioned Baptist sermon, in a little church in the wood ; the
text, *' What is that to thee? Follow thou Me; " only he roared
and vociferated — it was like the sharp shattering discharge of a
Calvinistic mitrailleuse in your face.'

'Our minister was on "The Prodigal Son;" who can say
more than, or as much as, the simple Divine words ? What a
Father ! '

Note B. (p. 25.)

* Ah ! I have done nothing to your brother's papers.'

Taken away in early manhood, he was deeply mourned ; and
a sister may be forgiven if she adds in a note words which
Dr. Brown wrote after reading some of her brother's papers : —
'He has humour of the best, with at times a fine subdued
irony, and a real style^ which you know Buffon says '* is the
man," and is the hole at which genius likes to peep out with
his gleaming een. If he had not been one of the best of mer-
chants, he would — certainly might — have been one of the best
of writers, for he has both ** the vision" and "the faculty,"
the thought and feeling, and the curious felicity of words
which makes thought at once new and true, and crystallises it,
making the whole his own, and nobody else's.'

Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty,
at the Edinhurgii University Press.

BOOKS PUBLISHED BY

DAVID DOUGLAS

10 Castle Street,
Edinburgh, May 1890.

AMERICAN AUTHORS.

AMERICAN AUTHORS.

Latest Editions. Revised by the Authors. In is. volumes.

By Post, IS. 2d.

Printed by Constable^ and published with the sanction

of the Authors^

By JOHN BURROUGHS.

Winter Sunshine.

By W. D. HQWEU8.

A Porefl^one Conclusion.

A Chance Acquaintance.

Their Wedding Journey.

A Counterfeit Presentment.

The Lrady of the Aroostook, a vols.

Out of the Question.

The Undiscovered Country, s vols.

A Pearful Responsibility.

Venetian Life, s vols.

Italian Journeys. • vols.

The Rise of Silas Lapham. a vols.

Indian Summer, a vols.

By FRANK R. 8TOCKT0N.

Rudder Qranj^e.

The Lady or the Tiger ?

A Borrowed Month.

By GEORGE W. CURTIS.

Prue and I.

By J. G. HARRIS ((//IO/0 Bemus).

Mingo, and other Sketches.

By GEO. W. CABLE.

Old Creole Days.
Madame Delphine.

By B. W. HOWARD.
One Summer.

By MARY E. WILKINS.
A Humble Romance.
A Far-away Melody.

%♦ Other Volumes of this cU tractive Series in preparation.

Any of the above may be had bound in Qoth extra, at 2s. each volnme.

* A set of charming little books *— Blackwood t MaguMine.

* A remarkably pretty series.' — Smturday Review.

* These neat and minute volumes are creditable alike to printer and publisher.'—
ralMaUG«ueiU.

* The most graceful and delicious little volumes with which we are acquainted.'—
h'' eeman.

* Soundly and tastefully bound ... a little model of typography, . . . and the con-
teuts are worthy of the dress.'— 5"/. /ames't Gasette,

* The delightful shilling series of " American Authors " introduced by Mr. David
Douglas, has afforded pleasure to thousands of persons.'— /"a^rv.

* The type is delightfuUv legible, and the pa^ is pleasant for the eye to rest upon ;
e\en in these days of cheap editions we have seen nothing that has pleased us ic
Mfc\\.'— Literary IV^rU.

Pepacton.

Locusts and Wild Honey.

Wake-Robin.

Birds and Poets

Fresh Fields.

By OUYER WENDELL HOLMES.
The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table

a vols.
The Poet, a vols.
The Professor, a vols.

By G. P. LATHROP.
An Echo of Passion.

By R. C. WHITL
Mr. Washington Adams.

By T. B. ALDRIGN.

The Queen of Sheba.

Maijorie Daw.

Prudence Palfrey.

The Stillwater Tragedy, a vols.

Wyndham Towers : A Poem.

By B. MATTHEW8 and
H. C. BUHNER.

In Partnership.

By WILLIAM JMHTER.

Shakespeare'a England.
Wanderera : A Collection of Poems.

EDINBURGH: DAVID DOUGLAS.

SCOTTISH STORIES AND SKETCHES.

4. Baubie Huie's Bastard Geet.

5. Glengillodram.

Johnny Gibb of Gushetneuk in the Parish of Pyketillim,

with Glimpses of Parish Politics about a.d. 1843, by William Albxandbr
LL.D. Ninth Edition, with Glossary, Fcap. 8vo, as.

Seventh Edition, with Twenty Illustrations— Portraits and Landscapes-*
by Gborgb Rbid, R.S.A. Demy 8vo, X2S. 6d.

' A most vigorous suid truthful delineation of local character, drawn from a portion
of the country where that character is peculiarly worthy of careful study and record.'
'-'Th4 Right Hon. W, E, Gladstom.

' It is a g^rand addition to our pure Scottish dialect ; • .. .• it is not merely a
capital specimen of genuine Scottish northern dialect; but it is a capital specimen
of pawky characteristic Scottish humour. It is full of good hard Scottish dry fun.'
— Dean Ramsay.

Life among my Ain Folk, by the Author of 'Johnny Gibb

OP GVSHBTNBUK.'

Contents.

I. Mary Malcolmson's Wee Maggie.

a. Coupo' Sandy.

3. Francie Hemegerie's Sharger Laddie.

Fcap. 8vo. Second Edition. Cloth, as. 6d. Paper, as.

' Mr. Alexander thoroughly understands the position of men and women who are
too often treated with neglect, and graphically depicts their virtues and vices, and
shows to his readers difficulties, struggles, and needs which they are sure to be the
wiser for taking into view.' — Freeman.

Notes and Sketches of Northern Rural Life in the Eigh-
teenth Century, by the Author of ' Johnny Gibb op Gushbtnbuk.' In x vol
Fcap. Svo, as. and is.

'This delightful little volume. It is a treasure. . . . We admire the telling
simplicity of the style, the sly, ^wky, Aberdonian humour, the wide acquaintance
with the social and other conditions of the northern rural counties of last century,
and the fund of illustrative anecdotes which enrich the volume. The author has
done great service to the cause of history and of progress. It b worth a great many
folios of the old dry-as-dust type.' — Datly Review.

Chronicles of Glenbuckie, by Henry Johnston, Author of ' The

Dawsons of Glenara.' Extra Fcap. 8vo. 5s.

*«* A book of humour and pathos, descriptive of the social, political, and ecdesi-
astical life in a Scottish parish of fifty years ago.

'A genuine bit of Scottish literature.'— .S'<:^///rA Leader.

Scotch Folk. IllustratecL Third Edition enlarged. Fcap.
8vo, price zs.

' They are stories of the best tvpe, quite equal in the main to the average of Dean
Ramsay's well-known collection. —i4MrniSrm Free Press.

Rosetty Ends, or the Chronicles of a Country Cobbler.

By Job Bradawl (A. Dbwar WillockX Author of ' She Noddit to me.' Fcap.
8vo, Illustrated, as. and zs.

' The sketches are amusing productions, narrating comical incidents, connected by
a thread of common character running through them all — a throul wasted ialo
occasional strength by the ' roset' of a homely, entertaining ynt.*— Scotsman.

EDINBURGH: DAVID DOUGLAS.

LITTLE BROWN BOOKS.

Foolscap Svo, Sixpence each.

The Religion of Humanity : An Address delivered at the Church
Congress, Manchester, October x888, by the Right Hon. Arthur J. Balfour,
M.P., LL.D., etc, fid.

' We have called the pamphlet a sermon because it is one, though the fitting text,
" The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God/' is courteously omitted ; and we
venture to say that of all who will read it, not one per cent, ever read or heard one
more convincing or intellectually more delightful.'-o/rf/a/or.

[yf large tyPt edition of this may also be had in cloth at 5^.]

Fishin' Jimmy, by A. T. Slosson. 6d. *A choice story from America. '

' A story from which, in its simplicity and pathos, we may all learn lessons of
vrisdom and charity.' — Freeman,

' A pathetic but pretty little story, telling the simple life of one possessed of a
profound veneration for all things heavenly, 3ret viewing them with the fearless
questioning eyes of the child.' — Literary World.

* Maes' in Galloway. By Patrick Dudgeon. 6d.

Rab and his Friends. By Dr. John Brown. 6d.

Maijorie Fleming. By Dr. John Brown. 6d.

Our Dogs. By Dr. JOHN Brown. 6d.

•With Brains, Sir.' By Dr. John Brown. 6d.

Minehmoor. By Dr. John Brown. 6d.

Jeems the Door-Keeper. By Dr. John Brown. 6d.

The Enterkin. By Dr. John Brown. 6d.

Plain Words on Health. By Dr. John Brown. 6d.

Something about a Well : with more of Our Dogs. By

Dr. John Brown. 6d.

WORKS BY DR. JOHN BROWN.
Horsd SubseeivsB. 3 Vols. 22s. 6d.

Vol. I. Locke and Sydenham. Fifth Edition, with Portrait by James Faed
Crown 8vo, 7s. 6d.

Vol. II. Rab and his Friends. Thirteenth Edition. Crown 8vo, 78. 6d.
Vol. III. John Leech. Fifth Edition, with Portrait by George Reid, R.S.A.
Crown 8vo, 7s. 6d.

Rab and his Friends. With Indiaproof Portrait of the Author
after Faed, and seven Illustrations after Sir G. Harvey, Sir Noel Paton, Mrs.
Blackburn, and G. Reid, R.SA. Demy 4to, cloth, 9s.

Marjorie Fleming : A Sketch. Being a Paper entitled ' Pet
Marjorie ; A Story of a Child's Life fifty ytas% ago.' New Edition, with
Illustrations by Warwick Brookes. Demy 4to, 7s. 6d. and 6s.

Rab and his Friends. Cheap illustrated Edition. Square i2mo.
ornamental wrapper, xs.

EDINBURGH : DAVID DOUGLAS.

SCRIPTURE HISTORY, ETC.

Rev. John Ker, D.D.

Sermons : First Sbribs. X4th Edition. Crown 8vo,
Sermons : Second Series. Fifth Thousand. Crown 8vo,
Thoughts for Heart and Life. Ex. Fcap. 8vo, .
Letters : z866-z885. Crown 8v0|

Rev. George Bowen, of Bombay.

Daily Meditations. New Edition. Sm. 410, . . . •
Love Revealed. New Edition. Sm. 4to, .....
The Amens op Christ. Sm. 4to,

Thomas Erskine, of Linlathen.

The Letters of. Edited by Dr. Hanna. New Edition. Cr. 8vo,
The Unconditional Freeness of the Gospel. Cr. 8vo,

The Brazen Serpent, or Life Coming Through Death. Cr
The Internal Evidence op Revealed Religion. Cr. 8vo,

The Spiritual Order. Cr. 8vo,

The Doctrine of Election, dr. 8vo, ....
The Fatherhood op God. Ex. Fcap. 8vo,

William Hanna, D.D., LL.D.

The Earlier Years of our Lord. Ex. Fcap. 8vo,
The Ministry in Galilee. Ex. Fcap. 8vo,
The Close op the Ministry. Ex. reap. 8vo, .

The Passion Week. Ex. Fcap. 8vo,

The Last Day of our Lord's Passion. Ex. Fcap. 8vo,
The Forty Days after the Resurrection. Ex. Fcap. 8vo
The Resurrection op the Dead. Ex. Fcap. 8vo, .
Memoirs op the Rev. Thos. Chalmers, a vols. Cr. 8vo,

William F. Skene, D.C.L.

The Gospel History for the Young. 3 vols. Sm. Cr. 8vo,

Rev. Walter C. Smith, D.D.

The Sermon on the Mount. Cr. 8vo»

Professor Blaekie.

On Self-Culture. Fcap. 8vo, ..«••••

Principal Shairp.

8vo,

Studies in Poetry and Philosophy. Cr. 8vo^
Sketches in History and Poetry. Cr. 8vo» .
Culture and Religion. Fcap. 8vo, .

. •

Professor Hodgson.

Errors in the Use op English. Cr. 8vo,

Mrs. M. M. Gordon.

Work ; or, Plenty to do and how to do it. Fcap. 8vo, .

Rev. Archibald Scott, D.D.

Buddhism and Christianity. Demy Svo^ ....

The Duke of ArgylL

What is Truth T Fcap. 8vo,

6s. od.
6s. od.
4S.6d.
4S.6d.

5s. od.
5s. od.
58 od.

7s. 6d.
3s. 6d.
5s. od.
5s. od.

5s. od.
6s. od.
IS. od.

5s. cd.
5s. od.
5s. od.

5s. od.
5s. od.
5s. od.
5s. od.
I2S. od.

7s. 6d.
6s. od.
3S. 6d.

7s. 6d.
7s. 6d.
3S. 6d.

3s. 6d.

3S. 6d.
7s. 6d.
IS. od.

EDINBURGH : DAVID DOUGLAS.

SCOTTISH HISTORY AND ARCHAEOLOGY.

Celtie Seotland : A History of Ancient Alban. By William

F. Skbnb, D. CL.t Historiographer-Koyal for Scotland. In 3 vols. I. History
and Ethnology. II. Church and Culture. III. Land and People. Demy 8vo,
45s. lUostrMted with Maps.

Scotland under her Early Kings. A History of the King-
dom to the dose of the zsth century. By £. William Robbrtson. In 3 vols.
8«ro, cloth, 36s.

The History of Liddesdale, Eskdale, Ewesdale, Wauchope-

dale, and the Debateable Land. Part I., from the Twelfth Century to 1530.
By Robert Bruce Armstrong. The edition is limited to 375 copies demy
quarto, and 105 copies on large paper (10 inches by 13), 42s. and 84s.

View of the Political State of Scotland in the last

Century. A Confidential Report on the Political Opinions, Family Connections,
or Personal Circumstances, of the 3663 County Voters in z^88. Edited, with an
introductory account of the Law relating to County Elections, by Sir Charles
El PHINSTONB Adam of Blair-Adam, Bart., Barrister-at-Law. Crown 8vo, 5s.

The Castellated and Domestie Arehitecture of Scotland,

from the Twelfth to the Eighteenth Century. By David M 'Gibbon and
Thomas Ross, Architects. 4 vols., with about 3000 Illustrations of Ground
Plans, Sections, Views, Elevations, and Details. Royal 8vo. 43s. each vol.
Net.

Scotland in Early Christian Times. By Joseph Anderson,

LL.D., Keeper of the National Museum of the 'Antiquaries of Scotland.
(Being the Rnind Lectures in Archseology for 1879 and 1880.) a vols. Demy
8vo, profusely Illustrated, zss. each volume.

Scotland in Pagan Times. By Joseph Anderson, LL.D.

(Being the Rhind Lectures in Archseology for z88z and 1883.) In 9 vols.
Demy 8vo, profusely Illustrated. X3S. each volume.

The Past in the Presmt— What is Civilisation? (Being

the Rhind Lectures in Archaeology, delivered in 1876 and 1878.) By Sir
Arthur Mitchell, K.CB., M.D., LL.D. Demy 8vo, with 148 Wood-
cuts, 15s.

Scotland as it was and as it is : A History of Races,

Military Events, and the rise of Commerce. By the Duke op Argyll.
Demy 8vo, illustrated, 7s. 6d.

Major Eraser's Manuscript His Adventures in Scot-
land and England ; his Mission to and Travels in France ; his Services in the
Rebellion (and hu Quarrels) with Simon Fraser, Lord Lovat, Z696-Z737.
Edited by Alexander Fergusson, Lieutenant-Colonel. 3 vols. fcap. 8vo, X3s.

Ecdesiological Notes on some pf the Islands of Scot-
land, with other Papers relating to Ecdesiological Remains on the Scottish
Mainland and Islands. By Thomas S. Muir. Author of ' Characteristics of
Old Church Architecture,' etc Demy 8vo, with numerous Illustrations, 31s.

The HiU Forts, Stone Circles, and other Structural

Remains of Ancient Scotland. By C. Maclagan, Lady Associate of the
Society of Antiquaries of Scotland. With Plans and Illustrations. Folio,
31S. 6d.

EDINBURGH: DAVID DOUGLAS.

OPEN-AIR BOOKS.

How to Cateh Trout. By Three Anglers. Illustrated, is. & 2s.

' The aim of this book is to give, within the smallest space possible, such
practical information and advice as will enable the beginner, without further
instruction, to attain moderate proficiency in the use of every legitimate lure.'

' A delightful little book, and one of great value to Anglers.' — Scotsman.

* The advice given is always sound.' — Field,

*The most practical and instructive work of its kind in the literature of
angling.* — Dundee Advertiser.

*A well- written and thoroughly practical little hooW— Land and Water.

On Horse-breaking. By Robert Moreton. Second Edition, is.
A Year in the Fields. By John Watson. Fcap. 8vo, is.

* A charming little work. A lover of life in the open air will read the book with
unqualified pleasure.' — Scotsman.

Hay in Anjou, with other Sketches and Studies. By

Elbanor C. Prick, Author of 'A Lost Battle,' etc. Fcap. 8vo, is.
lona. With Illustrations. By the Duke of Argyll. Fcap. 8vo, is.

Studies of Great Cities— Paris. By D. Balsillie, m.a.

Fcap. 8vo, zs.

On the Links ; being Golfing Studies by various hands, with
Shakespeare on Golf. By a Novicb. Also two Rhymes on Golf by Andrew
Lang. Fcap. 8vo, xs.

The Gamekeeper's Manual ; being an Epitome of the Game
Laws of England and Scotland, and of the Gun Licences and Wild Birds Acts.
By Alexander Porter, Chief Constable of Roxburghshire. Second edition,
crown 8vo, 38.

* A concise and valuable epitome to the Game Laws, specially addressed to
those engaged in protecting game.' — Scotsman,

'An excellent and compactly written little handbook.'— ^rr^PfVfx, Aberdeen.

The Art of Golf. By Sir W. G. Simpson, Bart. In i vol.

demy 8vo, with twenty plates from instantaneous photographs of Professional
Players, chiefly by A. F. Macfie, Esq. Price 15s.

' He has devoted himself for years with exemplary zeal to the collecting of
everything wluch a true golfer would like to know about the royal game, and
the result of his labour is worthy of the highest commendation. . . . The pro-
minent feature of the volume is the set of illustrations. For the first time, by
means of instantaneous photography, are produced on paper the movements
made by players, with a classical style in the process of striking a golf ball.' —
Scotsman.

Modern Horsemanship: A New Method of Teaching

Riding and Training by means of Instantaneous Photographs from the Life.
By E. L. Anderson. New Exiition, re- written and re-arranged. In x vol
demy 8vo. Illustrated. Price 21s.

' The best new English work on riding and training that we can recommend
is the book *' Modern Horsemanship."' — The Sport Zeitung^ Vienna.

* Every page shows the author to be a complete master of his subject.' — The
Field.

How to know Grasses by the leaves. By A. N. .M 'Alpine,

B.Sc, with a Preface by Robert Wallace, F.K.S., etc., Professor of Agri-
culture, Edinburgh. Illustrated. 3s. 6d. net.

EDINBURGH: DAVID DOUGLAS.

3 2044 018 910 208

THE BORROWER WILL BE CHARGED
AN OVERDUE FEE IF THIS BOOK IS
NOT RETURNED TO THE LIBRARY ON
OR BEFORE THE LAST DATE STAMPED
BELOW. NON-RECEIPT OF OVERDUE
NOTICES DOES NOT EXEMPT THE
BORROWER FROM OVERDUE FEES.

Harvard College Wldener Library
Cambridge, MA 021 38 (61 7) 495-241 3

I